


In the South

by vroomvroommic



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, idk what this shit is tbh, self discovery and recuperation, the romance isn't that important but also it's mf dotae so it's important, travel au!doyoung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vroomvroommic/pseuds/vroomvroommic
Summary: Self-deprecation and fear are the only things Dongyoung has ever known.





	In the South

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like 2 years ago with another pairing in mind, but I'm currently writing a lengthier Dotae and I needed a break and decided to bring this one out from the closet. It's inspired by Lupe Fiasco's Paris, Tokyo.
> 
> Title comes from Big Boi's song of the same name.
> 
> It isn't even Aquarius season so I don't even know why I felt like being this fake deep so here it is.

Around him, the crisp air hangs heavily, the freezing temperature making the task of breathing slightly more difficult. The airport is buzzing, people speaking in their native dialects, some English, German, but the majority speak in rapid French. Behind his face mask, Dongyoung’s brown eyes scan the expanse of the airport’s terminals. The duty free stores are neatly arranged in rows that run parallel to the walkways that facilitate human movement around the terminals. A little girl huddles closer to her mother on the row of chairs opposite of his location, wrapping her red coat around herself tighter. Her mother brings an arm around her tiny shoulders, placing a sweet kiss on one of her rosy cheeks. Dongyoung smiles behind his mask. The girl catches his gaze and they stare intently at each other until she breaks out into a grin, mouthing something the lines of _hello_.

“I think I should get going,” Yoonoh sighs beside him, rustling through his paperwork before rising to his full stature. Earlier, he had forgotten his passport at their shared hotel room, and he had to ask the taxi driver to drive back to their hotel halfway to the airport already. Dongyoung tagged along because he didn’t mind, his flight two hours after Yoonoh’s anyway. Dongyoung wouldn’t ever admit that he just wanted to spend more time with Yoonoh since he wouldn’t be able to meet up with him in quite a while.

Currently, Dongyoung follows Yoonoh’s movement, standing on his own two feet. Yoonoh shakes his head, giving him a forced smile, dimples becoming even more prominent. _Don’t_ , his soft, dark eyes say, but Dongyoung wants to. They walk silently towards Yoonoh's terminal, plane headed to New York City and its beautiful skyline glory. Yoonoh's shoulders are tense and Dongyoung feels too guilty for worrying one of his oldest friends.

“You know you can—”

“Jae, I'll be okay.” A pause, and Dongyoung mentally curses himself for forgetting. “I meant Yoonoh. Sorry, habit I guess.”

“It’s fine, I only changed it last year. Plus, it’s you. I don’t mind.”

The taller male flashes him a strained smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he still ends up enveloping Dongyoung in the warmest of hugs. Dongyoung reciprocates the gesture, an uncommon sentiment coming for him, but nonetheless claps his back lightly to emphasize the love and respect he’s developed for his childhood friend. Yoonoh smells like the expensive pomegranate shampoo he buys, and it’s the trivial familiarity that helps calm down his nerves. His friend is a boat in an ocean of anxiety, one he’ll have to depart from soon.

“I'll miss you a lot, Dongyoung,” Yoonoh whispers, and Dongyoung's sure he feels the slightest pressure of tears against the collar of his cardigan. Dongyoung smiles sadly at the polished airport floor. If he could cry, he would.

When he's arrived in Paris hours later after his own flight, at his hotel in Pantin, Dongyoung stands outside the balcony of his room while observing the graffiti coloring the city street. From colorful musical notes to cheshire grinning cats to dark-haired Marilyn Monroe-like female portraits, Dongyoung revels at the buzzing life of the streets below. This is not like the Paris the world is used to picturing on postcards or travel pamphlets; this is a Paris that speaks to the struggles of French life, that speaks to real problems this city veils behind glamor and history. Dongyoung thinks it's places full of history and art performed by everyday people present in places like the abandoned building across where one can truly find beauty. The world doesn't know what goes on underneath it all, though, but that’s all right. That’s one of the reasons why he’s decided to embark on this journey.

That night, Dongyoung goes to sleep in Paris.

 

* * *

 

Dongyoung wakes up in Tokyo, eyelashes slightly stuck to the skin just beneath his eyes. After a few times of blinking, Dongyoung tests the muscles throughout his body, flexing his biceps and back muscles first.

Shinjuku is nice, the city life buzzing even at the early hour of seven in the morning. Below, students are racing towards school in large crowds, dodging the older individuals already hard at work or enroute. From here, people seem like tiny specs as they pour out of Shinjuku station. Dongyoung throws on one of his heaviest coats since winter is drawing near, the chilly Japanese gust hurting his weakening joints. He makes a mental note to purchase supplements later on in the day to help him survive dinner.

He's walking down the narrow streets of Yoyogi, the streets neatly stocked with an endless ocean of products for sale ranging from books to low-end makeup supplies, as well as other related goods. Another particularly cold breeze hits his body then, causing Dongyoung to huddle into his jacket and wrap his saffron scarf around his neck.

A male speaks to the woman in the stand next to his, smiling curtly and bowing at her. The lady, who appears to be older, nods in acknowledgement and continues to restock the items on her part of the street.

A few stores down, Dongyoung notices a group of tourists are sifting through an outdoor shelf of colorful manga, so it's only natural that Dongyoung gravitates in their direction. As he browses through the titles, his finger runs along the spine of a familiar manga title. Instinctively, the Dongyoung takes the manga book from its place and stares at the cover page, eyes slightly wide.

“ _What's this, Yuta?”_

“ _What? Oh. That's a manga that came out a while ago. ”_

“ _I_ _s it any good?”_

“ _I don't know, I haven't read it. Give it a try.”_

Dongyoung remembers seeing Taeyong reading the translated version of the _Durarara!!_ light novels around the apartment, remembers how Taeyong's eyebrows would knit elegantly in concentration when he reached a particularly eventful or insightful page. A flood of memories come racing through his mind, but Dongyoung shuts them down before the memories can make any permanent damage to his controlled emotions. He can't start thinking about this, not since he's been enduring _this_ for the past two months already.

Still, Dongyoung leaves Shinjuku with the complete collection of _Durarara!!_ light novels in plastic bags.

Before he leaves Tokyo, Dongyoung makes sure to send the light novels home to his mother for safe-keeping purposes.

 

* * *

 

“Sir,” a voice calls out, amidst the ocean of cheerful, drunk Americans celebrating Mardis Gras. Dongyoung stills, lowering his camera and turning his direction towards a transient man by the sidewalk. He ignores the crowd moving towards the other direction, sifting through the scattered people until he's at the edge of the sidewalk. Dongyoung lowers himself to rest on bent knees, feet still firmly planted on the dark pavement.

The gray hairs on the man’s head contrast the color of his face. Dongyoung smiles involuntarily, and the man is showing him a brilliant, white smile.

“You look tired,” the man points out in English, taking Dongyoung a few seconds to register. The latter smiles sadly.

The stranger looks out towards the screaming streets, people doing indecent things, but nevertheless believing that this entire celebration is a way to get away from their problems. It's his turn to smile. “I could tell you apart from everyone else in that crowd,” the man says matter-of-factly, and Dongyoung realizes he's got a thick accent himself.

“I am not from around here,” Dongyoung declares after a few seconds, his rusty English from college doing little to nothing in his efforts.

“Neither are they,” the older man responds, referring to the strangers on the streets. A pause and comfortable silence follows.

“You know,” the stranger begins once more, Dongyoung's brown hues slightly unfocused from staring intently at the crowd, “you don't have to understand everything in life right now. You're doing good; this, whatever it is you're doing, I can tell it's going to end well for you.” His voice is unwavering, confident enough to have Dongyoung believing what the man is saying once he does process the meaning behind them. Dongyoung’s mind can only translate bits and pieces of the English the older man is speaking, but it's enough to understand the praise and reassurance behind them.

“Thank you,” Dongyoung mutters, flashing the man yet another smile before straightening his back and standing to his full height.

“Before you go,” the man stops him, leaning over towards a black plastic bag with his belongings, pulling out a pair of dark converse shoes. Dongyoung takes them, noting the intricate designs of a musical notes, jazz instruments, and an artist at the ankles. “These are my old chucks. My brother gave them to me before passing away and I took the liberty of painting my favorite musician onto the sides.” The man pauses, a small, reminiscent smile tugging at his lips. “He used to tell me that life was fleeting, that we only had a fixed amount of time on this planet. He'd tell me that we're just specs in the universe. Make your actions count,” the man rambles, but Dongyoung somehow understands.

At his airbnb, Dongyoung's iPhone does something it hasn't done for a while: it rings. It's just his incoming message tone, however, and a sudden uneasiness settles at the pit of his stomach. It takes him another full forty-three minutes to finally unlock his screen and stare at the screen blinking angrily at him.

_From: Osaka Prince_

_Taeyong is sick. Check up on him?_

Dongyoung doesn't reply until two days later, when he's just a night's sleep away from being on a bus, headed to Chicago. He only allows himself to be weak at moments like this.

_To: Osaka Prince_

_Take care of him_ , is his stupid reply, and Dongyoung hates himself. He shouldn't, though, but he does.

A few minutes later (and Dongyoung can't help but compare the time it takes Yuta to reply to his own), Yuta's message comes through.

_From: Osaka Prince_

_You don't even have to ask._

That night, Dongyoung dreams of Taeyong dying over and over again, of the love of his life almost being torn from his arms yet again like he had years ago, a time before he'd even realized that _he's_ the love of his life. That night, in the searing climate of New Orleans, Dongyoung misses Taeyong's gentle hand on his shoulder the most.

 

* * *

 

It's difficult after that, but news of Taeyong's improving health serve as motivation for Dongyoung to put himself through this even more, without any distraction. When Yuta texts him with the update of Taeyong's health, this time, Dongyoung doesn't respond.

The desert is drastically different from what he's used to. The sun is unbearable, the sweltering waves of heat rising from the sand dunes that his camel steps on, trudging with a unique grace.

Camels are the epitome of strength, Dongyoung thinks. He recalls the tour guide explaining adaptabilities the camel had developed over the course of its existence. A camel has longer eyelashes than other animals and a nostril that can close during sandstorms. In order to prevent itself from sinking into sand, it has wider feet than other terrestrial animals. Dongyoung wishes he could be like a camel today, as he sweats from every pore of his body.

Dongyoung wishes he had the strength to take on the world and do whatever he wants. But reality is harsher, much like the chilly winds of Seoul that slither through concrete buildings and rustle the leaves off trees. Much like the chilly winds of Seoul that loosen a scarf's grip on an unsuspecting citizen's neck, those winds that kept breaking his wings the longer he stayed.

Dongyoung's mind wanders, but his breath, however, is stolen from his body the moment his dehydrated deliriousness paves way to the view of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

It's beautiful, Dongyoung thinks.

 

* * *

 

A loud horn goes off, followed by a booming voice that seems to yell profanities _._ Dongyoung flinches at the harsh and loud tone, further tightening the grip on his bubble tea.

Los Angeles is different. People move as if they’ve only got one day to live and they have places to be. It’s hectic, Dongyoung further notes. Everyone around him seems to be headed towards a certain destination, carrying some kind of baggage and task that _needs_ to be completed. In honesty, it makes Dongyoung a bit uncomfortable. He’s walking down Wilshire Boulevard, looking at the large billboards in advertising products and movies in English while the walls of empty buildings are colored with profanities in Hangul. Dongyoung’s English has improved, a result of weeks in Europe, but it’s still not enough to understand everything or the obscure pop-culture references some advertisements utilize.

Dongyoung manages to find an empty bus stop bench to momentarily sit on to indulge his matcha boba. Teenagers walk by him, animatedly speaking with their hands and interchanging between their native tongue and English.

To be an immigrant—or anything but Caucasian—in America demands a certain level of humanistic perfection. It’s a pity, he thinks, because it is unattainable. Here, on the streets of Los Angeles’ Koreatown, Korean Americans are expected to be fluent in English. If there is even the slightest hint of an accent, people seem to look down upon you, and it’s happened to him personally when he’s ordered food at restaurants in America. The same is true for those who don’t speak Korean fluently. Dongyoung notes the increased number of loan words written in Hangul across the neighborhood, the way the letters spell words uncommon in places like Seoul or Busan. Dongyoung wonders if the same phenomenon applies to other ethnic groups.

The subway station is far too humid and the trains don’t turn on their air conditioning until they’re running, a fact Dongyoung learns the hard way when he gets onto the Wilshire station train earlier than its departure time.

He falls asleep composing an annoying jingle that has occupied his head all afternoon, neck bent to the right and on the brink of snapping. The composition leaves his throat sore the next morning, strained from overuse after months of not being used at all.

 

* * *

 

Mexico City is anything but quiet. The cars incessantly honk at citizens, at other cars, and anything that comes their way. Even as Dongyoung sits by the sidewalk, a plate of hot tacos in his hands, he can’t help but wonder why this city is so hectic.

Those thoughts fly right out of his left ear the moment he takes a bite of the exquisite maize tortilla and peculiar animal meat.

It’s in Mexico City that he rekindles his love for cuisine, especially tacos. He thinks of bringing Gongmyung once he returns to Seoul.

With each passing day, it feels like he’s recollecting himself, piece by piece. Maybe he’ll be back home sooner than he’d expected.

 

* * *

 

Moscow almost gives Dongyoung frostbite.

Even in a one hundred and four degree fever, all he can think about is Seoul, his parents, brother, his friends, and Taeyong.

His Taeyong.

 

* * *

 

He misplaces his wallet in Addis Ababa. He panics briefly before realizing that his passport and other documentation have been left back in the hotel.

Luckily, he has enough _birrs_ left in his pocket as loose change to last breakfast and it’s his last night in Addis Ababa.

When he’s eating _shiro firfir,_ he’s surprised to look up from his dish and see the same small girl from last night who had been outside of his hotel accommodation placing his wallet on the table with an small smile. Dongyoung smiles back brightly, pushing his plate towards her.

His last morning in Addis Ababa is spent like this: eating with a small girl by the window of a small, family-owned restaurant. He leaves Ethiopia with a soaring heart, and tasks himself to return in the future.

 

* * *

 

Even after years of outlawing the Chinese two-child policy, the effects linger. Dongyoung had read somewhere (probably in Taiwan) about the high number of females put into adoption because of their inability to carry on family names. He’d read that many foreigners were filing for adoption in order to give these girls an opportunity to live a life in which they would not be victims of social circumstances.

So Dongyoung had taken on the last task of his journey to consult his parents about his possible decision.

As he walks out of the Dongguan District’s Social Services building, Dongyoung feels hopeful for the first time in fifteen years.

 

* * *

 

Seoul is cold. It’s been three long years since he’s stepped foot here, since he’s been in the city. No one has recognized him yet, but they’re bound too. Dongyoung can’t go back to his apartment anymore, he hasn’t lived there in three years. He knows he no longer has any ties to the apartment complex, but he also knows everyone is often at Taeil’s apartment in the same neighborhood. Mindlessly, aimlessly, he hails a cab and manages to stand outside of his old friend’s apartment.

When Taeil opens the heavy door to his apartment, he lets out the strangest strangled noise to be possibly emitted from a man pushing his thirties before he’s draping himself over Dongyoung, as if to keep himself upright.

It takes an hour for Taeil to finally stop sniffing and choking out periodic sobs. It takes another three for Dongyoung to finally relax and rest his head on the older man’s lap, Taeil’s fingers absentmindedly carding through Dongyoung’s graying hair. He makes a mental note to dye it after he—

“Have you seen him?” Taeil asks, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Dongyoung’s breath hitches. “No.”

Silence reigns in the living room, the bright lights of Taeil’s new favorite variety show flashing and providing the only lighting in the space.

“He was really hurt that he was the only person you hadn’t informed about your decision,” he deadpans softly, but the gravity of the words long ago dissipated with the passing of the hours, days, months, years.

“I know.”

“Did you know he was engaged?” Taeil carries on casually, but it doesn’t do anything to the dreadful feeling that has Dongyoung’s heart shriveling up like a raisin. Sensing his distress, Taeil hums and pats his shoulder. “He never really looked at her the way he looked at you, though.”

Dongyoung reels at the use of past tense in the older’s words. “Looked like what?”

“He called it off in February,” replies Taeil, promptly ignoring his latter statement.

“Oh.” Taeil is still as tiny as ever.

Taeil shifts, patting Dongyoung away to sit upright before looking him in the eye. Taeil smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners. “This is the first time your eyes don’t look sad. I’m glad your journey proved fruitful.”

Dongyoung feels a bit lighter at Taeil’s words, pulling the shorter man into another hug. Taeil still smells like fabric softener, like he does laundry twice a week. Which he does.

“Go talk to him in the morning, Dongyoung,” Taeil says once he’s dozing off into slumber, half conscious, half musicals on broadway. “Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made.”

 

* * *

 

It’s weird. Taeyong hasn’t changed much, but his military duty has truly inspired him to keep his hair at a shorter trim. He's also kept it brown. Dongyoung feels extremely uncomfortable as he stares at Taeyong while he gets out of a white van to begin unloading groceries behind his sister’s restaurant. A set of carts are waiting by the door and Taeyong brings them over. It’s then that another figure emerges from backdoor and it’s none other than Seo Youngho.

Being the gentlemen that his is, Youngho quickly helps unload the groceries from the van with an easy smile. Youngho says something in the middle of the task that has Taeyong laughing, and something stirs at the pit of Dongyoung’s stomach.

It’s then he decides to move closer, close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“That should be the last of them,” Youngho says.

“That’s good, Johnny. You should go home before your fan girls from work find you,” Taeyong jokes, earning him a chuckle from the taller male.

“All right, TY. Take care of yourself. I’ll be in America for a while, but take care of yourself.” Taeyong merely flashes him a smile before rising on his toes and placing a hand affectionately on Youngho’s head, ruffling just as the younger male is gone.

Dongyoung stands there, motionless as Taeyong picks the last of the bags and heads towards the backdoor.

What follows next is something Dongyoung won’t ever be able to explain to himself properly, even years later.

“Taeyong,” he calls loudly, confidently even, but it’s all a façade for the terror he feels well inside his chest. Taeyong seems to hear him, back turned towards him, but his grip loosens on the grocery bags before they’re dropping unceremoniously to the floor with in a silent clatter.

And just like that, Taeyong is snapping his head in his direction and sprinting full speed towards Dongyoung, as if Dongyoung’s going to escape again, and crushing their bodies together in a vice-grip-like embrace. Once Taeyong is in his arms, Dongyoung lifts him off the ground due to their height difference, but the older male seems to not care as he clings onto Dongyoung for dear life.

It’s far from what he’d imagine his reconciliation with Taeyong to be, with more perceived talking and anger involved, but the whole world stops the moment he smells the familiar scent of Taeyong’s cologne mixed with cherry blossoms and the slightest home cleaning products. Dongyoung is truly home.

“Thank you so much for waiting, Hyung,” Dongyoung murmurs into his hair, Taeyong’s choked sobs ransacking his body. Dongyoung wants to chuckle at Taeyong’s antics, but he merely flashes the top of Taeyong’s head a painful smile he won’t be able to see. It’s been far too long.

“You’re a fucking pathetic idiot,” Taeyong chokes out in between sobs as Dongyoung rubs soothing circles on his back.

“I know. But at least you love me,” says Dongyoung.

“What makes you think that?” is Taeyong’s failed attempt at angst because his voice cracks, scowl in place as he pulls back, eyes rimmed red.

“It’s in the way you sunk into me just now,” Dongyoung says, finally pulling Taeyong into a kiss he hadn’t known he’d so desperately wanted for fifteen years. It’s light enough to have them both standing, but intense enough that the kiss leaves Dongyoung’s lips bruised and tingling, Taeyong’s own debauched expression most likely mirroring his. It’s all the motivation he needs to dip his head into Taeyong’s space once more and demand a softer, longer kiss that has them tilting their heads to slot their lips together, arms coming to wrap around one another. Taeyong’s fingers are shaking, and he’s sure his are too.

“But I’m here to stay, Taeyong. Just know I’m here to stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> if u made it to this part, u get a brownie ilu


End file.
